


Extracurricular Activities

by scifigrl47



Series: Phil Coulson's Case Files of the Toasterverse [12]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Also a bunch of teammates, Gen, M/M, Once you're an Avenger you're required to make some, Overprotective teammate syndrome, Peter Parker Has a Family, Poor choices, Potential exotic dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:17:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York has a party for any taste.  Some people like high class lounges.  Some enjoy a good dive bar.  There are gay bars and techno clubs and all night raves.  And somewhere out there, there's a club where the dancers are dressed like Super Heroes, and Spider-Man may or may not be their headliner.  </p>
<p>Let's face it, the everyone assumed that Clint would be the first Avenger to take up pole dancing.  He's a little distressed he's been beaten to the punch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extracurricular Activities

**Author's Note:**

> Just a silly bit of fluff to distract me from things I'm supposed to be doing. 
> 
> Nothing graphic here, but potential triggers for potential underage exotic dancing. Don't worry, Spider-Man is many things, but adept at the dirty stuff? Not so much. 8)

“You have to hear this.” Tony stripped off his jacket, tossing it haphazardly in the general direction of the table. Steve snagged it out of mid air, and hung it neatly over the back of the chair. Tony pretended not to notice. “Hi, by the way.”

Steve was smiling, his eyes warm. “Hi, yourself.” He poured a cup of coffee and held it out, a very effective lure. Of course, so was he, in well-worn sweat pants that clung to his hips and a t-shirt that might as well have been a second skin. Tony wandered over to take the coffee cup, and Steve caught his hand, tugging him in. Their fingers tangled together around the warm cup, and Tony tipped his chin up for a kiss.

Steve tasted like coffee and mint, and his free hand settled easily at the small of Tony's back, stroking there, just above the waistband of Tony's pants. “Hi, indeed,” Tony said, against Steve's lips, making him laugh. Tony pulled back, just enough to see Steve's eyes, and grinned at the way his hair fell over his forehead. He reached up and flicked the strands away from Steve's face. 

Steve jerked his head away, a faint flush rising in his cheeks. “Stop it,” he said, but the words were full of affection. “Had a few drinks, have we?”

“Well, I don't know about you, but I sure as hell have.” Tony leaned back against his hand, comfortable in Steve's strong grip. “Wanna take advantage?”

Steve snagged his tie. “No,” he said, dragging him in. “Not at all.” His lips caught and clung on Tony's, the kiss deepening and his fingers climbing up Tony's tie until the were snug against Tony's chest. Tony smiled against Steve's mouth. “Smug,” Steve whispered, not bothering to raise his head.

“Kinda,” Tony said, dragging Steve against him. “But I've got reason to.” His hand slid down to cup Steve's ass. “Look who I'm in the process of seducing.”

Laughing, Steve pulled back, far enough to press a kiss against Tony's forehead. He relinquished his grip on the coffee cup, but kept an arm around Tony's waist. “Drink your coffee, and sober up.”

Tony laughed. “I'm not that tipsy, Cap.” But he leaned into Steve's touch as he took a long swallow from the cup. It was too hot and too strong and made his eyes water. “Ah, you know just how I like it,” he said, his voice a guttural croak. 

“I do my best.” Steve kissed his temple, his cheek, his jaw, greedy when he could get away with it.

“And you do it so very well.”

“Good party, then?” Steve asked, his bare feet shifting on the tile. He leaned against the counter, Tony still close to his side. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the steaming pot and took a sip.

“Horrific,” Tony said, pulling a face behind his mug, just to make Steve laugh. “Oh! That's right, before you distracted me with your depraved sexual needs-”

“What?” Steve gave him a look.

“A man can hope. Anyway, stop interrupting. Before you distracted me, I was going to tell you, I heard the funniest goddamn thing tonight.” Tony tossed back the rest of his cup of coffee and reached for the pot. “Apparently, there's a high end club downtown that specializes in male strippers.”

“I'm assuming there might be more than one,” Steve said, eyebrows arching up. 

“Yeah, but this one has pole dancers dressed as super heroes.”

Steve stared at him. “Tony...”

“What?”

“No.”

Tony frowned at him. “No, what? What? What, no?”

“No, you may not take the armor to a strip joint.”

Tony's mouth fell open. “Wait. Wait, wait. First of all, what?”

Steve gave him look. “That is a PR nightmare looking for a place to happen.”

“I agree the armor is a sexy, sexy beast,” Tony said, “but even I know its limitations, and I'm pretty sure that pole dancing is not within the-” He paused. Sipped his coffee. “Actually, you know, if I came up with a light weight alloy, you know, not aiming for bullet proof and just went with some extreme joint flexibility, we might have a chance to-”

“Tony?”

“Yeah?”

“No,” Steve told him, trying to keep his face straight.

“I have a pole. It's on my plane,” Tony pointed out. “I have a pole, let's give this a try.”

“That's another thing, why do you have a-” Steve stopped, closed his eyes. “Rephrasing that. How do you have a pole on your plane? How does that work?”

“It took a long time to engineer a collapsible system that had the proper hydraulics to allow for-” Tony grinned at Steve over the hand that was currently covering his mouth. He nipped at Steve's palm, and Steve pulled it away, laughing. “What if,” he said, trying to sound arch, “what if it is my life's desire to be a pole dancer, Steve? Are you really going to make me choose between you and a fulfilling career as an exotic dancer?”

Steve thought about that, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Yes.”

“Well, damn, I choose you.” Tony tried to sound disappointed. Or self-sacrificing. He wasn't very good at that, though, so he just went back to drinking coffee. “It's a mighty sacrifice, though, I want you to know that.”

“I understand,” Steve said, sounding very serious. There was a hidden smile in his eyes, because he was Captain Sassypants. “I appreciate all you do to make this relationship work.”

“Enough to swing on my pole?”

Steve flushed, red sweeping over his face all the way to his ears. “No,” he said.

“I bet I can convince you.” Tony tossed back a swallow of coffee. “Anyway, before you distracted me. Again. There is a club that specializes in a super-hero dancers. Which is both in questionable taste and also a violation of a lot of copyrights, I swear, but here's the thing. The headliner is Spider-Man.”

He grinned at Steve. Steve blinked at him. “Is that hysterical?” Tony said, still grinning.

Steve set his coffee cup down. “Is it actually Spider-Man?”

Tony stopped. “What? No!” Chuckling, he went back to his coffee. “Of course it's not Spider-Man. It's just a stripper. In a mask. You can buy them on the streets now. The masks, I mean, not the strippers. Merchandising. Where SHIELD makes the money that pays for the damage we do.”

Steve's face was tense. Tight. “What if it is?”

Tony wondered when he'd fallen down the rabbit hole. “Steve. Steve, darling, that is... That is ridiculous. You know that's ridiculous. Spidey is-” He waved a hand. “He's a child. You can't hire a child to be a stripper. He's like, well, twelve.”

“He's sixteen. Or seventeen.” Steve crossed his arms over his chest. “Old enough to get himself into some serious trouble, and you know it.”

“No. Steve. Just- No.” Tony sank down into a kitchen chair. “He wouldn't. Steve. You are letting your imagination run away with you, and when that happens, I prefer to be in a starring role.” He braced his arms on the table. Steve was still frowning, his jaw tight. “Steve-”

Steve's eyes flicked up. “He's young. And young men do very stupid things when they feel they don't have a choice.” His shoulders flexed beneath the too tight cotton of his t-shirt. “Or when they feel their choices are limited by their circumstances.”

Tony slumped in his chair, his fingers rattling against the cup. “It's not him,” he told Steve. But there was doubt now, in the back of his head, clinging to the parts of his brain that loved worst case scenarios. He rubbed his forehead. “He wouldn't.”

“I think he would, actually.”

Tony took a deep breath. “Okay. Let's look at this rationally.” He paused. “I'll kill him.”

Steve's lips quirked up. “You're not going to kill him.” He relaxed enough, unbent enough to sink into a chair next to Tony at the kitchen table. “Try again.”

“So,” Tony said.

Steve took a deep breath. “So.”

“We're going to kill him. He's an associate member of the Avengers. We can kill him. It's in the charter.”

Steve gave a faint chuckle. “It is not.”

“Well, let's get that fixed. Right now.”

“No, Tony.”

Clint wandered into the kitchen, stretching one arm above his head and rubbing at his shoulder. He glanced in their direction with a smirk. “Hey, lovebirds,” he said, opening the fridge. He leaned in, checking out the possibilities. “What's the good word?”

“Spider-Man might be pole dancing downtown,” Tony said. “Or it might be a cheap knock-off in his mask. We're not sure.”

Clint straightened up, an apple in his teeth and a jar of salsa in his hand. He pulled the apple out of his mouth, and chewed. “High class?”

“What the hell does it matter?” Steve asked, looking horrified.

“I'm not being seen in a low class strip joint.” Clint braced his hip on the edge of the counter. “If it's low class, we're sending Darcy.”

“There is no way this will end well,” Tony said. He stood. “Let's go.”

*

“Sit down.”

“I think-”

Natasha let out a faint, long-suffering sigh. “Stark, I do not want to break your kneecaps, but I will. Sit your ass down.”

Tony looked at Coulson. “In interests of team unity, is she allowed to talk to me like that?”

Coulson was bent over his computer, and he didn't even look in Tony's direction. “In interests of team survival, she is encouraged to speak to you like that.”

“This is-”

“Sit down, Stark,” Coulson said, and Tony said. “Thank you. We appreciate your co-operation.”

“You'd better,” Tony grumbled. “So. What are we doing about this?”

“Research.” Clint was pacing back and forth, his loose and easy gait measuring of the distance. He was staring down at the tablet in his hands. “Which is taking longer than it should.”

“This isn't technically underground,” Natasha agreed, her eyes shaded behind her lashes and her fingers dancing over her laptop keyboard. “But it's close enough. Luckily, you had the club name, or I suspect this would've taken longer.”

“What have you found out?” Steve asked. He was leaning up against the counter, his arms folded. 

“High end club,” Coulson said, with a faint frown. “The cover charge is...” He arched an eyebrow. “Exorbitant, to say the least. They're cultivating a female clientele.”

“Performances, from what we can piece together online, are closer to burlesque than stripping,” Clint agreed. “A bunch of rotating acts. Acrobatics, dancing, sexy costumes, a little play acting, it's pretty tame.”

“With Spider-Man doing pole dancing?” Bruce asked, hunched over his coffee cup. 

“Only on Fridays,” Clint said. “Headlining act, once a week.”

“And not precisely pole dancing, or rather, not the way you'd generally think of it. Their act is working a Chinese pole,” Natasha said. 

“That sounds dirty,” Tony said. “And that means, what, exactly?”

“It means this is some Cirque du Soleil level shit,” Clint explained. “Acrobatics more than straight pole dancing.”

“Pretty much exactly,” Coulson looked up, removing his glasses from the bridge of his nose. “The good news? It's not a bump and grind strip show.”

“The bad news?” Clint flipped his tablet around. The footage was grainy and poorly lit, clearly cell phone footage of a stage somewhat out of range of the weak camera. But it was possible to make out the slim, lithe form of the male figure, clad in form fitting pants, gloves and a mask. Everything else was bare, and well muscled. “It might actually be him.”

There wasn't much of the footage, but the speed and flexibility that the figure presented was familiar. Tony glanced at Steve. “Well?”

Steve stared at the video, but it was clear that the person who shot it had gotten caught quickly. Steve rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I don't know,” he admitted. “It's clearly choreographed. It could be him, or it could be someone deliberately mimicking his moves.”

“We need a better look than this,” Natasha said, leaning her elbows on the table. “Someone's going to have to go in.”

“I vol-” Clint started.

“No,” everyone said at once.

“Fine, screw you all, we'll send Darcy.”

“No,” Coulson said.

“It could work,” Natasha said. “She's seen him here a few times, but they've never interacted much.”

“No,” Coulson said.

“Thor's away for Asgardian business, that'll make things easier,” Bruce said.

“No.” There was a faint hint of desperation to Coulson's voice. No one paid much attention.

“But Jane's away, too, we can't send her alone.” Steve frowned.

“He knows the rest of us too well.” Tony's foot rattled against the floor. “If it is him, and he spots any of us, he's going to bolt.”

Coulson stood up, bracing his hands on the table. “We are not sending Ms. Lewis. We have dozens of young, female SHIELD agents who are-”

“We promised him that we wouldn't involve SHIELD in his life,” Steve said, frowning. “I don't think that's too much for him to ask, to be left alone.”

“Darcy is SHIELD as well,” Coulson said, but it was clear that he was grasping at straws at this point, and he knew it. “Nominally.”

“She's still our best bet,” Steve said. “As much as I don't like sending her in there.”

“Trust me, she'll be ecstatic,” Clint said. 

Coulson dropped his head into one hand. “I am not responsible for this plan,” he said, his voice despairing.

“Understood.” Tony patted him lightly on the back. “We're still going to blame you.”

“I suspect as much.”

“Nat?” Steve looked in her direction, his brows drawn up tight. “Will you ask her?”

“She's on her way down.” Natasha went back to her computer. Tony wondered if she was playing Farmville or something equally stupid over there, or if she was just plotting world domination, either one was equally possible.

Darcy poked her head into the kitchen a moment later, her glasses askew on her nose and her hair tied back in an Avengers themed bandana. “What's the good word, boss lady?”

“We need you to go to a strip club and get us information on one of the dancers,” Natasha told her without looking up.

Darcy nodded, her mouth pursing. “Male or female dancers?”

“Does it matter?”

“Only in terms of what dress I'm wearing.”

*

"I love my life.”

Darcy leaned back in her delicate, elegant chair, surveying the room. The club was large and airy, the fixtures elegant and the all-male waitstaff handsome and clad in crisp, jewel toned silk vests over their shirts and perfectly tailored dress pants. They'd taken a table in the far back of the room, dimly illuminated and carefully out of the line of sight of the raised, brightly lit stage where three very athletic young men in masks and not much else were currently dancing. 

“I love your life, too, where can I sign up?” Drew was grinning up at the stage. His hair was bleached almost white today, the tips flicked with flame red. It worked on him, but Darcy wasn't sure how.

“You can't afford her life,” Shawn said. He was flushed, his dark cheeks washed with red. His eyes were big in his face.

“That's okay, neither can she.” Darcy flipped him off, and he blew her a kiss without even looking away from the dancers.

"Question."

They all looked at the fourth person at the table.

"Why am I here?" Harris asked.

"I think that Nanny Phil believes you are a stabilizing influence," Darcy said. She grinned at him over the rim of a martini glass the size of her face. Seriously, this thing was huge. "Also because Clint isn't allowed to go to strip clubs with me."

"Really?" Shawn blinked at her. "Is that, is that a relationship thing? I mean, did they have a fight about it?"

"It's not a relationship thing, it's an official thing." Darcy was very proud of herself. Rightly so. "It's in his file. He's not allowed to be in a strip club that I am in. Because of reasons." She sipped her martini. "There was some... Unpleasantness."

"You can never go back?" Harris filled in the rest of the Simpsons quote, and she held up a hand for a high five. He just looked at it until she started pouting at him. With a faint sigh, and an even fainter smile, he gave her a high five. 

"See? Was that so hard?" Darcy gave him a wide smile.

"Yes. Yes, it was. Because I blame you for the fact that I am currently sitting in a high end club wearing a suit waiting to watch what amounts to a burlesque show involving Super Hero impersonators," Harris told her.

"You should have a drink," Shawn told him. "Tony's paying."

"And that just makes the whole thing weirder," Harris said.

"Speak for yourself, straight boy." Drew was a loose-limbed sprawl of ennui, despite the almost manic gleam in his eye. "I'm sitting in a club with a cover that I could not possibly afford, about to watch hot boys mount a pole, I'm wearing obscenely expensive and very sexy underwear, and Tony Stark is getting me drunk." His teeth flashed in a wicked smile. "I am living the dream right now."

"Your dreams and mine seem to have very little in common," Harris told him.

“Yeah, mine are better.” 

“Mine don't end up with me owing a four digit bar bill to Tony Stark,” Harris said. “So I think that in the long run I'm going to come out ahead.”

Drew threw back his drink. It was pink and fizzy and the waiter had given him two little paper umbrellas and a wink. “I live dangerously.”

“I do, too, but less willingly.”

“We just paid about fifteen bucks for your Shirley Temple, so you're still going to be in debt by the end of the night,” Darcy told him. 

“Wonderful.”

The lights around the room, already fairly low, started to dim, the light falling away from the outside in, until only the stage was lit. “Heeeeere we go,” Darcy said, almost bouncing in her seat. And since her dress was fucking amazing, everything ended up bouncing with her. She loved this dress.

The sweeping, layered music of an orchestra poured from the sound system, and it took Darcy a moment to recognize the song. Her head tipped back. “Is this a classical arrangement for 'I Need a Hero?'”

“Yes,” Harris said. “Yes, it is.”

“I love this already,” Drew said. “Dear God, I love this already.”

The other dancers had left the stage, allowing the club's 'Spider-Man' to drop down from the ceiling, spinning as he went. The rope was designed to look like a web, but he dropped down to the stage, a lot of skin on display and before Darcy could find something snarky to say about that, he grabbed hold of one of the poles on the stage and started to move.

A minute later, she realized her mouth was hanging open. And she might've been drooling. She didn't know, and she didn't care.

“Wow,” Shawn said. He sounded a little drunk. “I didn't-” He cleared his throat. “Wow.”

“Holy FUCK,” Drew said. He leaned forward, bracing his folded arms on the table, his mouth hanging open just a little bit. “That's some extreme flexibility. That's-” His head tipped to the side, watching the dancer's movements. “That's rather-”

Harris' eyes were huge. “Well,” he said. “I guess that's what you'd call double jointed?”

“No, baby,” Darcy said. Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. “That's what you call BALL jointed. I didn't even know that you could do that. With the- The-” She gave up on words, because words were completely unnecessary.

Her phone vibrated in her purse, and she pulled it out, not taking her eyes off the raised stage. She connected the call with a flick of her thumb. “Kinda busy here,” she said, trying not to blink.

“Well?” Tony asked. “Is it him?”

Darcy frowned. Her eyes narrowed. “There's a lot of, a lot of abs and hips and shoulders and arms,” she said.

There was a moment of pause. “Are you drunk?”

“Uh-”

Tony sighed. “Let me talk to Harris.”

“Okay,” she said, handing it over, glad to be rid of it.

Harris gave her shoulder a slight shake. “Well?” he asked. “Is it him?”

Darcy smiled. “I have no idea.”

“Right. Video it is.”

*

“You are useless,” Tony told Harris.

“Look. I don't know what you expected us to do, go fingerprint the guy?” Harris said. He was not amused, and 'not amused' on Harris was actually pretty amusing. For Tony, at least. “You sent me in there with the worst cover story ever, Stark.”

“Fuck you, I had a great time,” Darcy said. “We told 'em it was Drew and Shawn's bachelorette party. Small. Intimate, even.”

“Batchelorette?” Bruce asked.

“They have a package,” Shawn explained.

“I got a TIARA,” Drew said, and he was proud of that. Proud enough to still be wearing the damn thing. It was pretty damn nice, as plastic party ware went.

“I got booze,” Shawn said.

“Aren't you underage?” Steve asked him, his brow furrowing.

“Tony gave us-”

“Never mind, let's just move on here,” Tony cut in, before anyone could tell Captain America about the legally questionable ids that had been handed over tonight, because he didn't want their real names appearing on any records, and this was an undercover mission after all. The fact that the ids bumped their ages up a bit was not a fact that Steve needed to know. 

At all.

Steve was giving him a look that mean this discussion was not closed, but Tony could duck it for a bit at least. “Video qualities much better this time around, but you got less of the headlining act and more of Shawn getting a lapdance.”

“Drew insisted,” Shawn said.

“I didn't think it was that kind of club,” Clint said, leaning over Tony's shoulder to frown at the footage.

“It's not,” Harris said. He propped his chin on one fisted hand. “Drew also gave the lapdance.”

“It was pretty damn funny,” Darcy said. 

“How did you not get kicked out?” Natasha asked. Her eyes were dancing.

“Kicked out?” Drew said, clearly insulted. “I got TIPPED.”

“This was a horrible idea,” Tony said to no one in particular, and everyone gave him pitying looks anyway. “Fine, everyone knew that.”

Darcy grinned. “Hey, free floor show. He coulda gotten hired.”

“I think we can safely assume that if this place did hire an underage teenager, they might be willing to bend the rules on a lot of fronts,” Coulson said. “SHIELD did get into their personnel records, the official 'identity' of their Spider-Man is one Bryan Foster, age 26, professional dancer with credits at a lot of local establishments.” He spun the laptop around to show everyone the file. The blandly handsome man had dark eyes and a prominent chin as well as an already prominent widow's peak.

“Not Spider-Man,” Steve said.

“Not Spider-Man,” Coulson agreed. “Could be he's the one who's actually dancing, or it could be that they hired him and paid him to be their front. Knowing they wouldn't get an actual id from an actual super hero, it would make sense that they'd find someone who makes their living doing this work and pay him to stay home on Fridays and claim to be working here. He gets paid, and gets the night off. And the actual Spider-Man gets paid in cash, off the books, mostly through tips.”

“SHIELD hasn't spotted him in the field on Friday nights since the dancer officially began working there,” Natasha said. “But his appearances have been sporadic at best. He follows no schedule.”

“That's not true,” Steve said with a faint smile. “We know exactly where he'll be on Tuesday.” He looked up. “Don't we.”

“You going to ask him point blank?” Bruce asked. “I don't see that going well, Cap. Kid's kinda quick off the trigger.”

“Point blank? No. But let's see how he reacts to a change in schedule.”

Darcy raised her hand. “Can I come on Tuesday?”

“No,” Clint told her. 

“Don't get your shorts in a knot, Barton. I just want an autograph.”

*

Spider-Man tumbled through the door from the landing pad, his body outpacing his legs, and his hands taking up the slack. “Hi!” he called, bouncing off the railing, the wall, the back of the couch, and skipping across the bar. Tony, used to this by now, just kept the booze out of the way and tossed the kid a bottle of Coke.

“Thanks!” Spidey plopped himself down on the edge of the bar, his rangy legs swinging in mid-air. “I'm early. I'd like that noted. Early. It happens. I can do it.”

“Good. Do it every week,” Steve said. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Kitchen. Let's go.”

“What did I do?” Spidey asked. Tony pushed him off the bar and nudged him towards the kitchen, where Bruce, Clint, and Natasha were already gathered. “What? Oh, God, WHAT?”

“Don't wet yourself, kid,” Clint said. He held up a familiar white and red container from their favorite Chinese food place. “You hun-”

“Yes.” Spidey took the plate he was handled, almost skipping to the table. “All right, Chinese!”

“Did you miss dinner?” Steve asked, his brows drawing up tight as Spidey filled his plate.

The boy pushed his mask up onto the bridge of his nose and reached for a pair of chopsticks from the jar on the table. “Nope,” he said, digging in. After a few bites, he slowed down long enough to add, “I had dinner. And lunch. And a snack.”

Tony leaned back against the counter, sipping his brandy. “You got a hollow leg?”

“I think it's closer to a hollow torso,” Spidey said, not rising to the bait. He shoveled another big bite of lo mein into his mouth. “I'm always hungry. Always.” 

Bruce handed over a white box. “Here, I saved you the egg rolls.”

“Aw, man! Thanks!” He grinned at Bruce and snagged one. As he settled down to eat, the adults exchanged a glance.

“I need to move your training to Friday next week,” Steve said, his voice stern, and Spidey's head came up.

He swallowed. “Friday?”

“Friday,” Steve said, his tone brooking no nonsense. That tone had been to war. A lot. Tony loved that tone, in ways that didn't fully count as platonic. Or appropriate with children in the room.

“But-”

“Is that a problem?” Steve asked.

“It's FRIDAY. Friday is DATE NIGHT,” Spidey said. He waved his chopsticks around. “Date night! I have a girlfriend, and let me tell you, she's smarter than me, so we do not do dates on weeknights, she has responsibilities and homework, and then there's Friday. Friday.” He paused. “Date night,” he repeated, each word so heavy it should've had a gravitational pull. Tony hid his smile behind his glass.

“Spidey-” Steve started.

“Listen, I have a girlfriend. I have a really pretty girlfriend and she has real pretty hair and sometimes she lets me touch it,” Spidey said. 

“I have no idea when you're joking and when you're not,” Clint said. 

“It's the mask,” Spidey told him.

“Of course it's the fucking mask, it's annoying as hell, I got no eye contact here.” Clint squinted at him as he ate his rice. “Do you need more condoms?”

“Oh, my GOD, no, what is wrong with all of you, I am not-” Spidey pointed at Clint. “I am not taking lectures on any kind of safety from you.”

“Hey, watch your mouth, kid,” Clint said with a smirk. “I'll lecture you if I feel like it.”

“The only time when 'those who can't, teach' is applicable,” Bruce said.

“Hey!”

“You jump off of buildings. Backwards. While shooting stuff,” Spidey said. “And you can't fly, you have no exit strategy, you just jump off buildings! What is that?”

“I'm ten for ten for people catching me,” Clint pointed out.

There was a faint thump as Coulson's folders hit the counter. Tony wondered when, exactly, he'd slipped into the room. “Ten?” he asked, his voice very quiet.

“Did I say ten? I meant eight,” Clint said. No one was fooled. Coulson really wasn't fooled.

“He meant ten,” Natasha said. “Actually eleven.”

“No, it's ten.”

“Are you counting Detroit or not?”

“Oh. Yeah, eleven.” Clint caught Coulson's eye. He gave a wide, not at all reassuring grin. “Eight. I mean, it was eight.”

Coulson stood up. “Barton. My office. Now.”

“We just got home. Your office is-”

Coulson leaned a hand on the table in front of him and leaned down, eye to eye with Clint. “We'll make do, Agent.”

Clint grabbed an egg roll. “Yes, sir.” Coulson took it out of his hand and snagged him by the arm, marching him towards the door. 

“You can come out from under the table now,” Natasha said as the door swung shut behind the two of them.

Spidey's head crept up over the edge of the table. “That man scares me,” he said.

“And that was why you will live,” Tony said.

Steve took a deep breath. “Finish your meal and let's go. We've got work to do.”

Spidey saluted. “Sir, yes, sir!”

*

“So, that was a bust.”

Steve was pacing up and down the living room floor. “I think it's him.”

“I think it's not,” Clint said. “He's too spastic to hold up a cover story.”

“Everything that comes out of his mouth sounds like a lie,” Natasha pointed out. “It's the most effective cover story.”

“So you think it's him?” Bruce asked.

“No,” she said.

“Coulson?” Tony asked.

“SHIELD is staying out of this,” Coulson said, his reading glasses perched on his nose. “Per your request.”

“Per his request,” Steve said.

“He's a minor, he's lucky he's not in a reformatory,” Coulson said.

“Bruce?” Tony asked.

Bruce pulled off his glasses and started polishing him. “I think it's not,” he said at last. “But if you want a definitive answer? Get me a blood sample.”

“I would advise against stabbing a stripper with a hypodermic,” Coulson said.

“I could do it,” Natasha said.

"Okay!" Clint set his hand on the table. "I'm done with this." He pulled out his phone and started flicking through the screens. 

Steve frowned at him. "Who are you calling?"

Clint glanced up. "The only person I know who can give us a definitive answer." He hit speaker and put the phone down on the table. "I'm calling in a favor," he said, leaning back in his chair. "I need you to go to a strip club and sniff a male stripper to see if its one of our teammates."

There was a long moment of silence. "You know, this ain't even the worst call I've gotten on an official Avengers line," Logan said. "That should tell you something, Barton."

Clint grinned. "We're a special, special team, Wolverine."

"You ain't kidding. I'm on my way over."

*

"Let me get this straight," Logan said, leaning back in his chair. He rested his beer bottle on his knee. Clint had greeted him at the door with a six pack, and he'd downed two before he'd even let anyone speak. "I gotta ride herd on about sixty kids, all of whom live under one roof, and you can cut the damn hormones with a knife. You idiots have one goddamn teenager to keep tabs on-"

"We did not adopt him," Tony pointed out. "He's not our responsibility." No one paid any attention to him, because he might as well be arguing that he wasn't responsible for Barton, either, when everyone knew he had a bank account marked 'Barton- Bail' just waiting to be used. Or misused. 

Again.

“Okay, so you have one underage teammate,” Logan said. “That better?”

“Yeah, that's accurate,” Tony said. He paused. “We let a kid onto the team.”

“Except you have no idea where he lives, what he's doing, or who he is,” Logan said.

“It was our first time adopting a junior member, in our defense,” Clint said, his lips twitching.

"And you fucked it up." Logan rubbed a hand over his face. "Okay. Yeah. Great." He peered at them over the curve of his fingers, his brows drawn low and his eyes sharp. “You really don't know if this is your kid or not? How do you not know?”

“It's a good costume,” Natasha said, sipping her tea. “And a very flexible dancer.”

“And you want me to go and give you some good intel?” Logan asked.

“Yep,” Clint said. “If you think you can without spooking him.”

Logan gave him a disdainful look. "Listen, if there's one thing I'm used to dealing with? It's nervous teenagers who got a tendency to run for the hills when they think they're bein' watched." He stood up. "I'll go. But if it is him, and he sees any of you idiots in the crowd, he's in the wind, an' you know it.”

“Don't worry, we'll stay back,” Steve said.

“We'll stay here,” Bruce said, rubbing a hand over his face. 

“We'll stay here,” Natasha agreed. “But you should take someone along.”

“I ain't involving any of my team in this clusterfuck, I'll never hear the end of it,” Logan said, his voice flat. He popped the top off the last of the beers and drained most of it in one long gulp. 

“Don't worry,” Tony said. “We've got just the backup you need.”

*

“Why the hell am I here again?”

Logan didn't move, didn't look away from the stage. “You fucked up somewhere, kid, and that's the truth.”

Harris stared morosely at the ceiling. “More times than I can count, actually.” He was wearing Drew's tiara, because why the hell not. It couldn't possibly make this situation worse. Nothing could make this situation worse.

The waitstaff was hovering at a certain distance, not quite sure what to do about Logan, who was ignoring all of them. Harris tried to look non-threatening, to off-set his 'date' for the evening, but there was only so much he could do. Logan was very, very threatening, even when he was on his best behavior. “This is my usual table,” he said, his jaw braced on one fist. “I have a usual table.”

“D' ya get a discount for that?” Logan asked, sounding mildly curious.

“I really do not care. It's going on Tony's credit card.” Harris chewed idly on a swizzle stick. It had a penis on the end, a nice touch, really. “That probably makes it worse, doesn't it?”

“What, being Stark's kept man? Seems like a pretty lousy idea.”

“Yeah.” Harris rolled his head back, meeting the eyes of a pretty young man clutching his drink tray to his chest. Harris wondered if it was cruel to make the guy come over and take the drink order. Probably. He held up his glass with a hopeful look, and the waiter was off like a shot.

“Sure you don't want something to drink?” he asked Logan.

“They got beer?”

“Mixed drinks.”

“Unless that mix is scotch mixed with more scotch, think I'll pass.” Logan shifted his his chair, his head tipping to the side, his nostrils flaring. “What, exactly, are we watchin' here?”

Harris glanced at the stage. “Boom Boom Badda and his arch enemy, Captain Claw.”

Logan nodded. “Think these guys have a slightly skewed idea of how the average hero/villain fight goes down.” His eyebrows arched. “Don't remember nearly so much licking.”

“Strange you should use the phrase 'go down,' because I'm pretty sure that's how this particular number is supposed to end,” Harris said, spreading his hands. “Simulated, of course.”

Logan snorted, but his lips twitched up. “Probably result in less damage to the city.”

“Depends on if it's a three way this week,” Harris said. He gave his bright drink a stir with his penis stick. “Boom Boom has a sidekick.”

“'Course he does.”

Harris' phone rang, and he pulled it out. “No,” he said, not even looking at the number. That ring tone only went off for one person in his phone book. Mostly because of spite. “You're early. He's not even on yet.”

“Do you need backup?” Tony asked. It sounded like he was in the armor.

“Do we need- No! No, we don't need-” Harris rubbed his forehead. “Why couldn't Darcy have done this, instead of me?”

“Coulson objected. Strenuously.” Tony's smirk was audible. “Do you want to fight Coulson abo-”

“No. No, I do not. He's not on yet. Go away.” Harris disconnected the line, and put his phone away. 

Logan was staring at him, a smirk hovering around his lips. “Was that ring tone-”

“Yes,” he said, just before his drink was tossed in the general direction of the table. “Thank you,” he said to the waiter's back. Logan was making everyone nervous, except the group of young women at the next table, who were clearly intrigued by his presence.

“Does he know that plays when he calls?” Logan asked.

Harris took a long drink from what remained of his drink. “Nope.”

Logan chuckled. “Kid, I think I like you.”

“Please don't, it doesn't work out well for me.” On the stage, the dancers were clearing out to thunderous applause and wild cheers. “The crowd's enthusiastic tonight,” Harris said. His drink came with another swizzle stick, he tucked that one in his pocket for Drew.

“Our boy up next?” Logan asked, bracing one booted foot on the unoccupied chair across from him. Harris gave him a thumbs up, his face buried in his drink. Say what you would about the price of alcohol in this place, they didn't skimp on the good stuff.

The throb of music was barely started, almost overwhelmed by the sound of the audience's screams, and 'Spider-Man' was barely on the stage when Logan started to laugh.

Harris looked at him. “Is that a good laugh? Or a bad laugh? I can't... I can't tell.”

Logan was still chuckling under his breath, even as he rolled to his feet. “It ain't him.”

Harris blinked. “It... Isn't?”

“It isn't,” Logan said. He paused, arms crossed over his chest. “You want to stay for the rest of the show?”

Harris' mouth opened. Closed. “No. Thanks. I'm good.” 

Logan ambled towards the door. “Great. Let's get outta here.”

*

The faint, unending buzz in the back of his head was kind of annoying.

"Okay, got it, this is not a comfortable situation, hate everything, could you SHUT UP NOW?" Peter hissed, and he was talking to himself, no he wasn't even talking to himself, he was talking to some mysterious and possibly sentient part of his brain that was always waiting for him to screw up. He hunched a little deeper into the depths of his hoodie, and yeah, great, that was going to work, a hoodie over a frickin' spandex suit, totally incognito there, Pete, really. He glanced up and down the length of the dark alley that ran from the back of the club out to the street, not sure why his spider sense would not stop whining at him. "There is nothing wrong, we are fine, it'll be okay, we just have to-"

A hand shot out of the darkness, snagging him by the back of his sweatshirt, and lifting him straight off of his feet. 

The punch was instinctive, wild and uneven, but with a lot of force behind it, and it probably would've worked if he had an actual footing and if he wasn't swinging at, well, Logan. Who looked at the fist as if it had talked bad about his mother, but he was too tired and possibly drunk to really care.

"Funny meeting you here," Peter said, and he aimed for suave and missed by about a mile when his voice broke. Badly.

Logan eyed him, one heavy brow arched. His free hand dug into his jacket pocket, coming out with a cigar that he jammed between his teeth. "I ain't laughing."

"You usually don't. It's a problem. I'm a funny guy. I've been told. By people. Educated, intelligent people.” Logan's expression didn't change. Peter tried another tact. “You know what? This is very uncomfortable for me, can you put me down now?" Peter kicked his feet, just a little, resisting the urge to squirm.

That won him a pitying look. "No."

"Well, okay, then." Peter crossed his arms and tried for dignity. It wasn't working, so he just went for 'not panicking.' That wasn't particularly effective, either. "So, what's up? You know, other than me?"

Logan studied him for a second, rolling the cigar between his teeth. "You're going to march your scrawny rear back in there and quit."

"I can't."

Logan's eyebrows arched. "Wanna tell me why?"

Peter considered him, his head tipped to the side. "What'll you do if I say no?"

Logan thought about that, the cigar working its way to the other side of his mouth. "Respect that and let you go."

Peter blinked at him. "Wait, what?"

"Respect that," Logan repeated, as if Peter was a student who just wasn't picking up on a lesson, "and let you go."

Peter's lips pursed. "Who are you and what have you done with Wolverine?"

"Here's the thing, kid. You're not dumb. A little short-sighted, a little bit of a spaz, kind of lacking a survival instinct of any kind-"

"Yes, thank you, why are we still here? Doing this?"

"Because you're not dumb." Logan lowered him down to his feet, but didn't let him go. "So if you're doin' this, you got your reasons. And I'm sure they're good." He paused, his lips kicking up on one side. "Or they seem good to you, 'cause you make piss-poor decisions-"

"Yes, I got it, thanks." Peter resisted the urge to kick him in the shins. Or web him in the face. Neither would work out well for him, but man, it would feel great for about six seconds, right before he ended up in chunks on the sidewalk. "I can't quit because I already quit."

Logan arched an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"Yes." Peter's feet rolled on the sidewalk, his weight shifting as much as it could despite the death grip Logan had on the scruff of his neck.

“You wanna tell me what's going on?”

“Do I have to?”

“Listen kid, the A-holes sent me over her to roust you-”

“Oh, God,” Peter said, his vision whiting out at the edges. “Oh God oh God oh God-”

Before he could really manage to work himself into a panic, Logan gave him a shake. “I told 'em it wasn't you.”

The rush of relief was very close to sex. “I love you.”

“Yeah, great, I get that a lot. But honest t' God, kid? I'm the only thing keeping them off your back here.” Logan's brows drew up tight. “How you think it would go if Captain America stormed that stage and dragged your narrow ass down off that pole?”

“Well, actually, with this clientele, they'd probably pay extra for that-” Peter, still stuck somewhere between outright panic and relief, both of them warring for space in his head, realized a little too late that Logan was not at all amused. “No?”

“You are hanging on by a thread here, Webhead,” Logan said, “so cut the comedy.”

“I can't help it, I talk when I'm nervous and you make me really nervous for some reason, don't know exactly why, but I have a feeling that it's because you're currently scruffing me like an underweight kitten,” Peter said. “That might have something to do with it, you know that?”

“Ask me if I care.” Logan leaned in. “Talk to me. Or talk to a very upset Captain America.”

“That's... That's not really something I'm looking forward to,” Peter said.

“Yeah, well, I'm Canadian, and I still don't like having Cap disappointed in me. Can't imagine how much worse it is for you.” Logan's mouth twitched up. “Talk.”

Peter took a breath, a deep one. “My family had some-” His head bobbed from side to side. “Property tax problems. We made a mistake, things have been tight, but I didn't realize-”

One that he wouldn't have even known about if he hadn't been digging in Aunt May's desk, looking for stamps. Once seen, it couldn't be unseen, and just the thought of it, the memory of it, had his stomach flipping over. He took another breath, leaning into the support of Logan's hand. “And I needed to find a way to get some money to help with that.”

“Gonna lose your house?”

“No. Not anymore. I made- I mean, I made enough.” The last of it was in his pocket now, untraceable cash that Aunt May would have to take. “It's not much, our house, but it's the only home I've ever known. And if my- My family wants to leave? I'll go, happily.” His head came up. “But I'll be damned if I let them be forced out, because I'm out here, doing this.”

Logan studied him, eyes narrowed. “And, what, the first thing that comes to mind is exotic dancing?”

“No, but as it turns out,” Peter shot back, “I'm only qualified for three things that pay enough for me to get the money I needed. Drug runner, paparazzi, and professional wrestling. And despite what the mask would have you believe? I don't like people shooting at me, spitting on me, or throwing chairs at my head.”

“Cut to the chase,” Logan said, but his lips were twitching. “Pole dancing?”

Peter felt his face heat. “It was my girlfriend's idea.” Logan stared at him, blank faced. “She helped me- She choreographed it.” He waved a hand in mid-air. “The routine.”

Logan opened his mouth. Closed it. Took a deep breath. “Kid?”

“Yeah?”

“That's a keeper, right there.”

“I know, right?” Peter grinned at him from behind the mask. “It was pretty much the best idea. I made more money in a couple of Friday nights than I would've managed even if I'd quit school and worked full time. And all it cost me was my pride.”

For the first time, something like amusement was in Logan's eyes. “Didn't enjoy your first foray into exotic entertainment?”

“No. No, I did not, and what do you mean, first? First, there is no first. Or if there is, it's a first followed immediately by a 'last.' That was miserable, I just concentrated on following the choreography and not falling on my ass and let me tell you, that was hard. That was way harder than it should've been, because some of those women said really unacceptable things. I mean, I'm scandalized.” Peter wiggled his feet against the pavement. “Can I go now?”

Logan considered him. Peter tried to look innocent, which, considering the mask, was probably completely useless. But he tried anyway. He felt the grip on the back of his shirt go loose, falling away, and he skittered back a few steps, not taking any chances. “Stay outta trouble,” Logan said, already turning away. “Next time, I'll rat your ass out to your teammates, see if I don't.”

“You're no rat,” Peter said, bouncing up to scramble across the wall of the building. Logan paused, his head tipping back to look up in Peter's direction.

“Kid, if you were my responsibility, you'd be grounded for the rest of the term, which is why they don't let me take responsibility for any of the students.”

“That's probably for the best.” Peter pushed off from the wall, throwing a web up. For an instant he paused, his weight balanced, his body held firm. “Logan? Thanks.”

Logan waved in his general direction, already heading for the street. “Don't make it a habit of relying on my compassion, Webhead.”

“Trust me, I won't.” With a flick of his legs, Peter pushed off of the building, and was swinging, up and into the night sky with a couple of shots, web leading the way. In a matter of seconds, he was airborne and on his way, relieved to have gotten off as lightly as he had.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he found a perch on a flagpole before he pulled it out. “I know, I know,” he said, pulling his mask up so she could hear him.

“Date night.”

“I knoooooow,” he sing-songed, grinning. “I had to pick up my paycheck.”

“Good job tonight.”

“You weren't there.”

“You'll never know, will you?” Gwen said, a faint laugh in her voice.

“I would know if you were there.”

“That's what you think, but let's face it, you can occasionally be pretty dense. C'mon. It's Friday.”

“Date night,” Peter agreed. “Be there in-” He pushed off, spiraling into a freefall for an instant before he flicked out a web and let it snap him around, a broad and easy arc. “Five minutes.”

“I'm waiting.”

*

Logan struck a match against the wall and brought it up to the cigar, cupping his hands around the flame until the tobacco caught. After a moment, he sucked in a breath, and exhaled, smoke curling around his face. “You get all that?”

The faintest scruff of expensive shoe leather on dirty back alley pavement made him grin.

“I think I got what I came for,” Phil Coulson said, stepping into the muted light of the street. “Thank you for your assistance.”

Logan arched an eyebrow. “How'd your discussion with the club manager go?”

Phil considered that. “Let's just say, he's agreed that perhaps hiring an underage dancer wasn't his best business decision. I doubt it's a mistake that will be repeated.”

“Whatta you know. Actual learning experience, there.”

“For everyone involved.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Extracurricular Activities](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7963864) by [ERL33](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ERL33/pseuds/ERL33), [scifigrl47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47)




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